I hesitated. ‘Not really. I hardly know her, and I’m pretty sure she won’t remember me. She spent most of her time out East till her husband died, and after that she only lived in England for about two years – that was when I was very small. She left fifteen years ago, for good, when I was seven. I haven’t seen her since the time she came to say goodbye. I’d hardly be surprised if she just sent a message back now to say she can’t even remember my name. That is, if the dervish gets it right … I wonder if he can give a message at all? As a non-communicator he just about wins, wouldn’t you say? He ought to be at the Royal Court.’
‘But surely your Queen would not—? Ah, here he is,’ said Hamid, rising, ‘and praise be to Allah, he has brought someone with him.’
The ‘someone’ was a young man, a European, tall and thin and carelessly dressed, with light hair bleached to fair by the sun, and grey eyes. He had the slightly confused air of someone startled awake from sleep, and I suddenly remembered Great-Aunt Harriet’s alleged nocturnal habits. Perhaps the staff slept during daylight? He paused for a moment in the shadow before dismissing the porter with a gesture, then came forward into the sun. I saw him wince as if its fierce light worried him, as he approached slowly and with apparent reluctance over the broken pavement. He looked about twenty-four.
His voice was friendly enough, and what was more, English.
‘Good afternoon. I’m afraid I didn’t get your name. I gather from Jassim that you have an urgent message for Lady Harriet? Perhaps you could give your message to me?’
‘You’re English? Oh, good.’ I stood up. ‘It’s not exactly a message. My name’s Mansel, Christy Mansel, and Mrs. Boyd – “Lady Harriet” – is my great-aunt. I’m in Beirut on holiday, and someone told me that my great-aunt was still living up here at Dar Ibrahim, so I came up to see her. I’m sure my people at home will be very glad to have news of her, so if she’ll spare me even a few minutes, I’d be very pleased.’
He looked surprised, and, I thought, guarded. ‘A great-niece? Christy, did you say? She never mentioned anyone of that name to me.’
‘Should she have?’ My voice was perhaps a little tart. ‘And you, Mr—er …? I take it you live here?’
‘Yes. My name’s Lethman, John Lethman. I – you might say I look after your great-aunt.’
‘You mean you’re the doctor?’
I must have sounded abrupt and surprised, because he looked rather taken aback. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I’m sorry, it was only because I suppose you look – I mean, I expected somebody older. The porter told my driver that “the doctor” wouldn’t allow anyone to see my great-aunt, that’s how I knew you were here. If he did mean you, that is?’
‘I suppose he did …’ He pressed the heel of his hand to his brow, shook his head sharply as if to wake himself up, and gave me the flash of an embarrassed smile. His eyes still looked blurred and unfocused. They were grey, with wide, myopic-looking pupils. ‘I’m sorry, I’m still a bit stupid, I was asleep.’
‘Oh, goodness, I do apologise. When one’s madly sightseeing all day one tends to forget the siesta habit … I’m sorry, Mr Lethman. It was just that when the porter said “the doctor” was here I began to think my great-aunt must be ill. I mean – if you have to live here …?’
‘Look,’ he said, ‘we’d better clear this up. I’m not a doctor really, unless you like to count half a course in psychological medicine—’ A quick look. ‘And don’t let that worry you, either, because I’m certainly not here in that capacity! Your great-aunt’s pretty fit, and all I actually do is keep an eye on the Arab servants and see to things generally, and provide her with a bit of company and conversation. I don’t “have” to live here at all in the sense you mean. All that happened was that I came here – to the Lebanon – to do some research for a paper I wanted to write, and I was marooned up here one day, driven to ground by one of the flash storms they have occasionally, and your great-aunt took me in, and somehow one thing led to another, and I stayed.’ His smile had something tentative about it, but oddly disarming, so that I thought I could supply the missing bits of the story quite easily. He added: ‘If you can think of a better place to write in, just tell me.’
I could think of a million better places to write in, among them almost any room almost anywhere within daily reach of people, but I didn’t say so. I asked: ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Nearly a year. I came last July.’
‘I see. Well, it’s a relief to know she’s all right. So I’ll be able to see her?’
He hesitated, apparently on the brink of saying something, then gave that odd little shake of the head again, and ran his hand back over his brow, almost as if he were smoothing away some physical discomfort like a headache. I saw Hamid watching him curiously.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘if you’ve something to tell me, go ahead. But let’s sit down, shall we?’
He followed me into the shade of the divan, and we sat down. I laced my fingers round one knee and turned to regard him. He still looked uncomfortable, though not in the physical sense; his long body looked relaxed enough, and his hands were slack on his knees. But there was a tight knot of worry between his brows.
‘How long since you heard from your great-aunt?’ he asked at length.
‘If you mean how long since I myself did, I never have. In fact I only remember seeing her about three times in my life, and the last time was when I was about seven, but my family hears from her now and again. There was a letter last year some time – just before Christmas, I think it was. She certainly wrote as if she were fairly fit and in her right – that is, fairly fit, But it didn’t bother much with news.’
I got the idea that he knew what I meant, but he didn’t smile. He was frowning down at his hands. ‘I only asked because—’ A pause, then he looked up suddenly. ‘Miss Mansel, how much do you and your family know about the way she lives here?’
‘I suppose we know very little, except the obvious things, that she’s perhaps getting a bit more eccentric as she gets older, and that she’s made her life out here for so long that it isn’t very likely she’ll ever want to move and come home again. You’ll have gathered that our family’s never been very strong on family ties and all that, and of course lately Great-Aunt Harriet’s had this thing about cutting all her ties with England home and beauty – that’s almost all her letters have been about, when she wrote at all. Don’t think the family minded, they didn’t. What she does is her own affair. But since I came out here I’ve heard a bit more about her, and I gather that now it’s a pretty far-out kind of eccentricity … I mean, all this Lady Hester Stanhope imitation. Is it really true? Does she really live like that? Mr Lethman, she isn’t really bats, is she?’
‘No, oh no,’ he said quickly. He was looking immensely relieved. ‘I wondered if you knew about that. It wouldn’t be very easy to start explaining from scratch, but if you know the Stanhope story it makes it relatively simple. I won’t say your great-aunt deliberately set out to be a modern “Lady of the Lebanon”, but when she first settled here at Dar Ibrahim she did keep a bit of state, and various people made the comparison to her, and then she discovered that the old Stanhope legend was still very much alive among the country Arabs, and she herself got a good deal of benefit from it in the way of service and influence and – you know, the various by-products of celebrity. It was the locals who started calling her “Lady Harriet”, and it simply stuck. Your great-aunt was amused at first, I gather, and then she discovered it suited her to be a “character”, and in the way these things have, it gradually grew beyond the point where it could be stopped, and certainly beyond the point where she could treat it as a joke, even to herself. I don’t know if you can understand this?’
‘I think so,’ I said. ‘She couldn’t detach herself any more, so she simply went with it.’
‘That’s it. Nor did she want to detach herself. She’d lived out here for so long, and in a way she’d made it her country, and i
n a curious way I believe she feels she has a kind of right to the legend.’ He smiled, the first smile of genuine amusement. ‘If you want the truth I think she has a fair amount in common with her original. Well, she simply settled down to enjoy it, and took a great deal of pleasure from the more picturesque details – riding out with the hounds and hawks, for instance, letting Dar Ibrahim be used again as a halt for caravans on their way from High Lebanon and Antilebanon to the sea, and receiving the occasional “distinguished traveller” – mostly archaeologists, I believe, who’d known her husband and his work. She even meddled a bit with politics, and for some time now she’s been threatening – though I think it’s only window-dressing myself – to turn Muslim.’ He paused. ‘And then of course when I turned up out of the blue she was delighted. I was to be the “resident physician” who has such a large part in the Stanhope story … you know that Lady Hester Stanhope kept her own doctor with her at Djoun? Well, when our “Lady Harriet” took me in, and found I’d been halfway to a medical degree, it suited her down to the ground. So I get a courtesy title which impresses the Arab servants, and what I actually do is provide your great-aunt with company and conversation. I need hardly add that if she did need medical attention I’d get it from Beirut.’
‘Who does she have now that Dr Grafton’s gone?’
‘Dr Grafton?’ He sounded quite blank, and I looked at him in surprise.
‘Yes, don’t you know him? Surely, if he attended her six months ago you must have been here.’
‘Oh, yes, I was, I was only wondering how you knew the name.’
‘Someone at the hotel who told me about Dar Ibrahim said my aunt had been ill last autumn, so I got them to find out who her doctor was, and rang him up to ask about her. I was told then that he’d left Beirut. Who does she have now?’
‘She hasn’t needed anyone since then, I’m glad to say. She’s got a bit of a thing now about the Beirut doctors, but I’ve no doubt that if it’s necessary I’ll make her see the light.’ He smiled. ‘Don’t worry … I really do look after her quite well, you know, and I run the place for her as far as one can. And if you’re thinking about the general four-star-hotel atmosphere you’ve seen up to now, let me tell you that there are five courtyards, two gardens, three Turkish baths, a mosque, stabling for fifty horses and twelve camels, several miles of corridors including a secret passage or two, and as for mere rooms, I’ve never managed to count them. I use radar to get from the Prince’s Court to the Seraglio.’
I laughed: ‘I’m sorry, was I looking at the dust on the floor? Don’t you have slaves to go with the décor?’
‘Only myself and three others – Jassim the porter, a girl called Halide, and Halide’s brother Nasirulla, who lives in the village and comes over during the day. Actually we manage quite well, because the old lady herself lives very simply now. I may tell you that her part of the palace is a bit better kept than this. Halide’s a good girl, and looks after your aunt pretty well. You really have no need to worry about her.’
‘Did I say I was worrying? I didn’t mean to throw you on the defensive like this, what have I said? I’m sure Aunt Harriet’s having a whale of a time being Lady of the Lebanon, and I’m glad you’re here to look after her. All I want is to see her for five minutes so’s I can tell my people all about it.’
Another of those pauses. Here we were, I thought; back to Square One.
He shifted on the hard seat, and glanced sideways at me.
‘Yes, well, that’s rather it, don’t you see? The point is, we’ve standing orders to stall everybody off, and’ – his gaze dropped again to his hands – ‘anything she’s ever told me about her family didn’t lead me to think she’d make an exception there.’
I grinned. ‘Fair enough, I’m not blaming you, or her either. But can’t we let her decide for herself? I take it she doesn’t know I’m here yet? Or will Jassim have got that across to her?’
‘He hasn’t seen her yet, he came straight to me. As a matter of fact, he gets more across than you’d think, but he didn’t get your name. I wasn’t sure who you were myself, till I spoke to you. I admit he isn’t so hot as a messenger – you might call him one of your aunt’s charities, like me – but he’s pretty useful as a staller-off at the gate, and we can’t get anyone much to stay here nowadays. There isn’t much money, you know.’
There was something about the way he said this, looking at me steadily with those curiously unfocused eyes. I noticed that the whites were bloodshot, and he looked as if he didn’t get enough sleep, but he seemed relaxed enough now, his long spare frame slack on the marble seat as if this were thick with silk cushions and Persian rugs. He was dressed in grey lightweight trousers and a blue beach shirt, neither of them expensive, but he wore on his wrist a really magnificent gold watch, bought no doubt in Beirut. I found myself remembering what Charles had said about Great-Aunt Harriet’s penchant for young men, and some other corner of my mind came up with the phrase ‘undue influence’. But this I ignored; it was after all irrelevant. If Aunt H. could get a young man to run her ramshackle palace for her and give her the kind of company she liked, so much the better. Especially if it was true that there was very little money left. I wondered just how true this was, and if Mr Lethman looked on the sudden interruption of a relative as a threat to his own position vis-à-vis the ‘Lady Harriet’. In which case my good-looking cousin Charles might be even less welcome than I. I decided not to mention Charles till I saw Aunt H. herself.
John Lethman was saying ‘Jassim wouldn’t have been able to see your aunt yet, in any case. She usually sleeps a good deal during the day. She’s a nightbird, you know, like her original. So if you could wait a little longer, then I can go and ask her about it? Halide usually goes in to wake her at about six.’
‘Of course I’ll wait,’ I said. ‘That is, if you don’t mind, Hamid?’
‘Not at all,’ said Hamid without moving.
There was a slight pause. Lethman glanced from Hamid to me and back, then consulted his watch. ‘Well, that’s fine, it won’t be long now, and we’ll see.’ Another pause. He cleared his throat. ‘I suppose I ought to warn you … Of course I’ll do all I can, but I can’t guarantee anything. She’s old, and sometimes forgetful, and – well, let’s call it “difficult”. And some days are worse than others.’
‘And today’s been a bad one?’
He made a rueful mouth. ‘Not too good.’
‘Well, if she really doesn’t feel up to seeing me, then that’s that, isn’t it? But tell her I’ll come back any time she says, when she’s feeling better. I’m in Beirut till at least mid-week, and I could stay on. I was going to ring up soon to tell my people what I was planning, and it’d be rather nice if I could give them news of her. In fact, Daddy might just be ringing up himself this evening.’
‘“This evening”? Hadn’t you understood? I meant it literally when I said she was a nightbird. She usually seems to wake up and be at her best at something between ten and midnight, and after that she’s quite often up all night. If she receives anyone at all, that’s when she sees them.’
‘Good heavens, she does play it for real, doesn’t she? Do you mean that if I’m to see her, I’ve got to my stay here all night?’
‘Until pretty late, at all events. Could you?’
‘I could, but I can hardly keep my driver here until the early hours of the morning. Could you put me up? Have you a room?’ I meant ‘a room that’s fit to sleep in’, so the question wasn’t as absurd as it might have sounded. Mr Lethman seemed to be considering the question on its merits. There was a short pause, then he said, agreeably enough:
‘We could certainly find you one.’
I looked across at Hamid. ‘Do you mind? We can see what my great-aunt has to say, and if I do have to wait and see her later on, would you go back without me? You could call at the hotel and tell them I’m having to stay up here for the night, and – are you free tomorrow?’
‘For you, yes.’
‘You’re very good,’ I said gratefully, ‘thank you. In that case, could you come for me again in the morning? Wait in the village, don’t bother to come right across as far as the gate.’
‘I will certainly come to the gate,’ said Hamid. ‘Don’t you worry about that. But I don’t much like going away now and leaving you here.’
‘I’ll be all right. And I simply must see my great-aunt.’
‘Of course you must, this I understand. I am sorry, I know it’s none of my affair, but surely it could be arranged that she could see you for a few minutes now, and then I could take you back to your hotel.’
Beside me, Mr Lethman straightened suddenly. His voice held a weariness and exasperation that was quite obviously genuine. ‘Look, I’m sorry about all this. I’m not making this difficult just for fun, you know, in fact I’m hating the position I seem to have got myself into, having to stall you off when you must think I’ve no standing in the matter at all—’
‘I wasn’t exactly thinking that,’ I said, ‘and you have got standing, haven’t you? I mean, this is her home, and if she’s asked you to live here, there it is, and no arguments. Even if you’re not officially her doctor, I suppose you could call yourself her steward or something.’
‘Malvolio in person, yellow stockings, cross garters, and all.’ A flick of feeling in his voice that I didn’t like, gone as soon as heard. He followed it with another of those disarming smiles. ‘But you see the situation’s hardly normal in any way at all. I suppose I’ve got used to it, and in any case this is a damned queer country where one learns to accept almost anything, but I realise this place must seem pretty weird to anyone like yourself coming into it for the first time. It did to me when she first received me. She uses what were the Emir’s rooms – the Prince’s Court, we call it – and an old State Divan is her bedroom. It’s kept pitch dark most of the time. The Stanhope woman did the same out of vanity. I don’t know what your great-aunt’s motive is, certainly not that, possibly just imitation; but I remember when I was taken along there at midnight the first time I wondered what sort of loony-bin I’d landed into. And lately she’s taken to—’ He stopped, and seemed to be examining the tip of one shoe with great attention. ‘How well do you remember your great-aunt?’